White Shores
by xstormqueenx
Summary: When Aragorn crosses swords and paths with Elen, the battle for Middle-earth becomes a battle of the heart. {AU}.
1. Before

**Author's Note:** Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.

* * *

 **Before**

"Another one, mister?"

The man inclined his head slightly, silently acquiescing his agreement, face wreathed in shadows beneath the sweeping brim of his tall pointed grey hat. The tavern wench swept his empty tankard onto her tray, turning away with an exaggerated sway of the hips, before waddling over to where several pot-bellied patrons were waxing lyrical on the merits of bachelorhood, illustrating their points with various well-timed belches.

He made to pull out his pipe, only for a sharp chill to suddenly sweep around the room as the stout oak doors to the tavern burst open, revealing an oddly matched couple, the man elegant of bearing with almost feminine features, his clothes discreetly marking him of noble rank, his berry coloured cloak billowing back from surprisingly broad shoulders; the woman slatternly, with unwashed ebony hair and starry eyes dulled by despair, the neck of her gown cut too low, the bodice bulging outwards against her wasted flesh, the faded fabric hanging off her too thin frame.

Despite the harsh climate, she wore no cloak, enduring the elements with gritted teeth, arming herself against it with alcohol, abruptly signalling for two tankards as her companion led her over to a bench in a dark corner, obviously desiring somewhere discreet for discourse, amatory or otherwise. She sat down, crossing her legs, deliberately letting the ragged gown ride up, exposing a well-turned ankle, glancing over at the man by the mullioned window to see his reaction, only to apparently lose interest at the sight of his well-worn vesture, making the corners of his lips curl up in unseen amusement.

"Here you go," the tavern wench said abruptly, slamming his tankard down in front of him, froth spilling over the sides. She nonchalantly slopped up the spillage with a swipe of her billowing sleeve, before sashaying off, the man carelessly glancing around the room again, his eye catching the woman's once more, but she just looked away, her fingers wandering to her companion's thigh, nobody but the stranger with the shadowed face noticing how her hand shook.

* * *

" _Mithrandir_."

Gandalf turned around, the sound of Sindarin syllables sitting strangely on Naevys's lips, a cacophony of cultures clashing together. She stepped forwards, the moonlight striking her pale skin, turning it silver, and for one brief heartbeat, she was young and beautiful once more. But as a cloud passed overhead, she was cast into darkness, and Naevys was unnaturally old again, her fall of tangled black hair winged with white, her hands curling into almost claws.

"Naevys," he acknowledged, inclining his head. "I see you haven't forgotten an old friend after all."

"It doesn't do my business any good to have my benefactors thinking they're not the only one warming my bed," Naevys said lightly, stepping forwards, almost as if she was going to join him on the long road he was intent on wandering.

Gandalf's face darkened. "You do not need to exist in this fashion," he said quietly, his grip tightening around his staff. "It is not necessary, child."

"And it is for my child, I exist so," Naevys said coldly, "or it is she who would be earning her living thus."

Gandalf exhaled sharply, before reaching beneath his cloak, pulling out a cloth bag of gold coins that jangled. "Here," he said, holding it out to her, "take this and go home. Do not degrade yourself any further."

"I will not accept your charity," Naevys hissed, her grey eyes suddenly stormy. "Someone of my rank and bloodline does not beg in the gutter" -

\- "No, they earn their crust on their back," Gandalf hissed back, suddenly looming over her, face almost inhuman, "carving out an existence alongside the other poor wretches who have lost their way."

"I did not lose my way," Naevys snarled, standing her ground, "my birthright was ripped from me" -

\- "It is gone," Gandalf said tiredly, anger fading in the face of her desperate desire for what should have been hers, "but it does not have to take you and Elen with it. Let the past go and embrace your anonymity. Seeking secrets shall only lead to your mutual destruction."

"There is nothing left to destroy."

"There is Elen."

"With the blood of kings flowing through her veins!" Naevys cried, tossing her head back, briefly revealing the pointed tips of her ears. "Living like a pauper – with a leaking roof and a whore for a mother" -

\- "Take this, and go home, _alone_ ," Gandalf reiterated, pressing the cloth bag of coins into her shaking hands, "do not turn anymore tricks." His pitying gaze met and held hers, both remembering how she'd mocked him in the tavern by displaying her ankle for his appraisal, the memory making Naevys half turn away from him, shame suddenly striking her.

"What happens when the money runs out?" she said in a low voice.

"There will be more," Gandalf said, clasping her shoulder, "you should have come to me long before now."

Naevys shook her head, full mouth suddenly mocking. "You are never here, _Olórin_ ," she said bitterly, "you are always wandering" -

\- "Not far enough to avoid hearing that you have been talking with a loose tongue," Gandalf snapped, rounding on her, slamming his staff into the stony ground. "It is tomfoolery to boast of having the One Ring in your possession!"

Naevys stared at him, suddenly understanding his sudden appearance in her unravelling existence. "It was not but a jest," she said sulkily, pushing the hair out of her face, "a jape amongst old friends."

"One you have obviously saw fit to repeat as you travel from tavern to tavern," he said coldly, "attracting unwanted attention I warrant."

"I can protect myself," Naevys said, pulling out the dagger hidden beneath a billowing sleeve, "and I have instructed Elen also. We do not need you to stand between us and the enemy."

"Nor do you need to have the Nazgûl on your trail," Gandalf said, making her take a step back, all the blood draining from her face, "during my travels, I have heard they are abroad" –

\- "If I lied, it was for good reason," Naevys snapped, hiding her fear with false bravado, "there is men ready to commit to my cause, but only if they have incentive" -

\- "What amentia have you attempted this time, eh?" Gandalf said sarcastically, circling her. "Go on, speak freely, you are amongst friends here."

Naevys glanced around her, only seeing the empty road and Gandalf's angry eyes, making her shrink into herself. "It is your fault," she said, her voice cracking, "if you had not sought me out as a child and told me the truth" -

\- "I was a fool," Gandalf admitted, eyes suddenly old instead of angry, "a fool for having faith in fairytales, but I had a thirst for the forbidden..." His voice trailed off, leaving them standing in a void of silence. "Launching an assault against Elrond is not the answer," he said, shaking his head at her, "and your place is not amongst them anymore. You forfeited that right a long time ago."

"Because I thought love was worth it," she said bitterly, shaking back her black hair. "But I was a fool."

"Blood wills out though in the end," Gandalf said, his voice distant, studying her face, seeing the faint ghost of star-like beauty echoing down the ages in her ravaged features.

"I could have loved you," Naevys said simply, "but you would not let me."

"I would not have let myself," Gandalf said quietly, turning away from her. He had watched over her for many a long year, and when she'd become a woman, she had changed towards him, mistaking his kindness for something more, leading to a chasm cracking into existence between them.

Naevys studied him as he had her, noting his hunched shoulders, his grey beard. "I did it for Elen," she said softly, reaching for him, only for her hand to fall to her side, "to give her everything she should have had."

"It is not for you to give," Gandalf said, turning around, "and instead you have brought hell to your home and hearth."

* * *

Elen stirred, the smell of smoke instantly making her sit upright, her fall of ebony hair cascading over a shoulder as she wildly turned in the direction destruction beckoned her. Flames licked the edges of her room, Elen hastily getting to her bare feet, her hand grabbing the crumpling wall for support, panic paralysing her.

Her mother had returned late that night, drunk and angry, tossing a cloth bag of gold coins into her lap, such riches startling Elen. But it meant they would eat, that the rent would be paid for that month, maybe even warm clothes for the winter. Naevys had retired to her room, slamming the door behind her, mumbling about Maia bastards, Elen retreating to her own quarters, hiding the money under her pallet.

Yet now all her plans for the future were for naught, the shack they cautiously called home burning down around them. Elen pressed her nose into the crook of her arm, coughing as the smoke seized hold of her, wrapping itself around her like a snake, threatening to suffocate the life out of her. The door seemed like a thousand miles away, and then the sound of her mother's voice shattered the silence, high and furious, her rage reaching the rafters, making Elen's head snap up, eyes widening in terror as Naevys's voice was suddenly cut off mid-scream, making Elen's heart stop at the same time.

Elen slumped against the wall, stuffing her fist into her mouth as the sound of heavy footsteps echoed around the shack, the sound of the rooms being ripped apart making her start violently, edging closer and closer to where she was. If the flames didn't reach her first, _they_ would, and who they were, she didn't know, only knowing they had murdered her mother, and that they would shed her blood next.

Gathering up the ragged skirts of her nightdress, she clambered off the pallet and onto the freezing floor, the smoke making her eyes sting, the flames throwing themselves across the walls, almost taunting her, all but taking hold of what she had once called home. There was no time to grab anything, not even her dagger, the blade tangled up in her torn kirtle, Elen having disrobed and disposed of her dress in a far corner earlier on, and so she made for the window, coughing as she moved, her shaking fingers turning the latch, freezing at the sound of heavy footsteps outside her door, only for them to suddenly fall silent, almost expectant, awaiting her arrival.

With the tears streaming down her face, she clumsily executed her escape, crashing onto the damp earth outside, crawling into the shelter of the surrounding woods, the spit and snarl of flames filling the air along with the heavy crash of horse's hooves, and she knew they were seeking her, terror driving her further into the darkness, not knowing what was hunting her like a wolf with its prey.

Then a hand was clamped over her mouth, dragging her behind a tree, silencing her scream. She was roughly turned around, her terrified gaze crashing into Gandalf's blazingly blue one, seeing the sky falling down within their indigo depths. She fell still, half recognizing him, remembering his grey beard and kind face, but at the same time he was a stranger, his cloak covered in blood, a gash gouged across his forehead.

Gandalf glanced behind him, barely able to breathe, only one small step ahead of what sought to destroy him and the daughter of Naevys, all he'd come to care about. He had done this, seeking out half lost stories, letting their words lead him to the truth, to Naevys and Elen, sowing the seeds of their destruction, Naevys lying in one last attempt to win back past glories. Yes, he had started this, and so thus he would finish it.

 _Is it too late to come on home?_  
 _Are all those bridges now old stone?_  
 _Is it too late to come on home?_  
 _Can the city forgive? I hear its sad song..._


	2. After (Can You Not Hear It Calling?)

**After (Can You Not Hear It Calling?)**

They travelled the road for three days, sleeping under hedgerows and cruel skies, leaving behind everything Elen had ever known with every step. She barely registered her new reality, the world now an illusion edged with crimson, making her want to claw the memory of her mother's scream from the inside of her skull. Gandalf let her be, only concentrating on staying ahead of the Nazgûl, a task easier said than done, their deadly desperation to discover the Ring greatly alarming him, their fervency in following mere threads only emphasizing it.

It was on the third night that Elen finally spoke for the first time, making Gandalf glance up sharply from the fire he'd been warming his wrinkled hands at, the two of them camping out in a clearing after spending the day begging in a nearby town, disguising themselves as a destitute grand-father and grand-daughter on their way to the West.

"You are _Istar,_ " she said, almost hissing the syllables like a snake, her face unearthly in the flickering firelight.

"You remember me, then?" Gandalf said hesitatingly.

"You brought me a wooden sword once," Elen said, raising her grey gaze to his, "and swung me round in circles to make me laugh. Are you my father?"

"No," Gandalf said bluntly, "nor am I one of your mother's... benefactors."

"Then who are you?"

Gandalf studied her for a long moment, knowing she wasn't asking for another name to add to the ones she already knew, but what his intentions were. "I am a friend," he said slowly, reaching for her hand, only to drop it to his side when she turned away from him.

Several long moments of silence passed, only broken by the harsh crackle of the fire, its embers burning low. Gandalf leaned back, studying Elen's imperfect profile, seeing only echoes of her elvish lineage in her features, the sweeping ebony arch of her eyebrows and her wide-set eyes that changed like the sky, stormy grey one moment, then bitterly blue the next. There was too much of her harsh human heritage present, coarsening the curve of her lips, the bones of her face pinched, lending her a half-starved look.

She was tall and leanly built, moving with a broken grace that caught at Gandalf's old heart, reminding him of Naevys when he first knew her. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, hair dark as midnight, tumbling to her waist in a tangled mane, and he realised with some surprise she wasn't the young girl he supposed her to be, having lost track of time during his long wanderings.

"How many winters have you endured?" he asked abruptly, his bushy eyebrows drawing together in almost consternation.

"Almost twenty," she said bitterly, startling him.

"But I thought you were a whelp!?" he exclaimed. "Your mother made out as much!"

Elen flinched at the mention of her mother, her heart further fracturing in her chest. "It was to protect me," she choked out, "she – she was getting old and ill - the men she brought back, they would have preferred me instead of her, willing or not. They had the money to pay" -

\- "So she lied," Gandalf said, cutting across her, revulsion rising in him, "I understand."

"You may understand, but I do not," Elen flared up, face suddenly feral in the firelight. "What happened back there? Who were they who murdered my mother?"

Gandalf stared into the flames, remembering that night against his will, how he'd secretly followed Naevys home but too late, the Nazgûl, attacking out of nowhere, catching him uncharacteristically off-guard. He had fought fiercely for Naevys, only to have his own existence almost ended, being beaten back, only to see Elen escaping the burning house, following her into the woods instead, the Nazgûl nearly on top of them.

"You will speak, damn you!" Elen exploded, stamping her still bare foot. "Tell me!"

"You know what you are, don't you?" Gandalf said uneasily, drawing out his pipe. "Who... you are."

Elen nodded, lips curling downwards with disgust. "It is of no matter to me," she said, half turning away from him, "it does not fill my belly nor put a roof over my head. But it mattered to my mother; it... it was all she spoke of."

"She wanted to win it back for you," Gandalf said, exhaling sharply, "to restore you to your birthright. But it is and was an impossible feat, one she refused to accept was so, and she told even more impossible lies to secure support from even greater fools than she. She said she had the Ring in her possession so... they came."

Elen stared at him, remembering whispered stories of the Ring and those who sought it, giving her nightmares of black cloaks flapping like crow's wings and the deadly drumbeat of horse's hooves in the darkness.

"They are growing ever more desperate to discover the whereabouts of the Ring," Gandalf said agitatedly, passing his pipe between his worn hands, "enough to hunt down those who make empty boasts of owning it, even as they know it to be untrue."

Elen turned away from him again, not wanting to hear anymore, that her mother had died on the premise of a petty lie, drunken cunning that held no conviction.

"That is why I have been away for so long," Gandalf said, bowing his head, "I too have been searching for the Ring. Sauron..." He gazed at the ground, jaw tightening. "War is coming, child," he said slowly, raising his head, blue eyes becoming distant, "can you not hear it calling?"

 _I hear hurricanes a'blowing_  
 _I know the end is coming soon_  
 _I fear rivers overflowing_  
 _I hear the voice of rage and ruin..._


	3. Into The Shadows

**Into The Shadows**

"Here," Gandalf said, throwing a heap of filthy fabric at Elen, who caught it with confused hands.

"What is this?" she said, bewildered, shaking it out, only to reveal a gown, its dark billowing swathes reminding Elen of a shroud.

"It is the beginning of the next chapter of your pitiful existence, child."

"You stole this from a washing line, didn't you?" Elen said dully, crumpling the gown back into a ball.

"The last town we passed through to be precise," Gandalf said, looking awkward for an aeon or two, Elen glancing curiously at him, wondering exactly how old he was, something in his stare searing the edges of her soul during the rare times when he looked at her _properly_ , instead of his usual carefully careless glances.

"Where are we now?" Elen asked, not caring, each vista verging into one, indistinguishable from the other. They had been travelling for three weeks now, still disguised as a destitute grand-father and grand-daughter, changing their name from town to town, not that there was anybody who cared enough to ask who they were.

"Bree," Gandalf said, glancing around him, always on the alert. "I have friends here. You will be safe."

"You are leaving me?" Elen said, panic paralysing her, finally grasping what the gown signified.

"For the time being," Gandalf said, bowing his head, avoiding her eyes, "I have other tasks that require my attention." As in finding the Ring before _they_ did, he silently added to himself, dryly wondering if he could bear the weight of such a burden, knowing he had no other option but to do so.

Elen just stood there, staring at him, her eyes wild and wide. "You cannot leave me," she said wildly, grabbing his arm. "You must not."

"I must, child."

* * *

Elen pressed her palms against the mullioned glass, Gandalf fading like a ghost from her sight, his cloak swirling around his ankles. He had brought her to _The Prancing Pony_ , an inn in Bree, Gandalf on friendly terms with its proprietor, Barliman Butterbur, or Barley he was universally known as, an unkempt individual with a wild beard and a vague expression in his eyes.

It was over a tankard of ale that Gandalf had talked Barley into hiring Elen as a serving maid, passing her off as the offspring of an old friend who'd died in his cups, leaving her in the charge of Gandalf, an unfortunate responsibility he would like to be rid of, Elen as equally eager to make her own way in the world. As he'd talked, Barley nodding almost absentmindedly at appropriate intervals, Elen had just sat there, clad in the voluminous gown Gandalf had given her, her face clean for once, black hair braided back.

"Ann," Barley boomed, gesturing for her to come forth.

"My name is Nan," Elen flared up, turning around, her new name sitting ill on her lips.

"Come here, child," Barley said, her words passing right over his head, "and sup with us." He patted the bench beside him, Bob and Nob nodding at her, their faces open and friendly, as befitted a hobbit Elen bitterly acknowledged. They worked for Barley as well, Bob in the stables, Nob as some sort of servant, doing whatever Barley bossed him into.

"You need fattenin' up, wench," Bob said brutally as she reluctantly came over, "especially when those tankards weigh a ton."

"Ever worked in an inn before, Nan?" Nob asked, elbowing Bob in the side.

"Here and there," Elen said honestly enough, having not been above serving beer and other beverages in the past to earn a crust. She had also toiled in the fields and taken in laundry, but her mother had hated earning an honest coin, not when she could earn more on her back and on the arm of some rich noble.

"Well, this is a decent establishment," Barley said pompously, losing his vague look for once. "I shall not tolerate lewdness or looseness here."

Elen nodded, Nob handing her a large bowl of stew, its delicious smell making the tears suddenly spring to her eyes, having existed off slops and leftovers that would have been flung to pigs for the past three weeks.

"You shall not starve here," Bob said, pouring her some wine, "so stop your snifflin'."

* * *

Elen paced the floor of her tiny room high up in the eaves, feeling like a princess in her turret, locked away from the world, the thought making a bitter smile burn across her lips. Her mother had died for such desires, Elen exiling herself from them. She was nobody and she would be nobody. She would wipe down tables and turn a deaf ear to the crude compliments Barley's customers paid her whenever he was out of earshot. She would be content with three hot meals a day and a roof over her head, with a clean pallet to sleep on and money in her hand to buy warm clothes and shoes that didn't let in.

She wandered over to the window, staring out at the cobbled street below, the night air oddly azure, thinking of Gandalf, wondering where he was now, whether he was dining with kings or was sleeping under a hedgerow. She remembered the wooden sword he had brought her so long ago, the dagger she had left behind at the shack she'd shared with her mother, the thought of her mother's body burning to ash amongst the ruins making a tear roll down her cheek.

Elen abruptly sat down on the sill, fists clenching into balls by her sides, hating her mother for dying and leaving her on her own, hating herself for feeling so. Naevys had been the only family she had ever known, her father an unknown quantity, Naevys crushing down any curiosity Elen had expressed in him, only knowing he was human.

A sudden flash of movement on the street below caught her attention, making Elen's head snap up and her heart stop, the man's black hooded head and cloak reminding her of the Nazgûl, turning the blood in her veins to ice. She stood up, pressing her palms against the glass just as she had when watching Gandalf leave her, watching the stranger stride down the street, his shadow drowning in darkness.

As though sensing her stare, the stranger suddenly stopped and turned around, raising his head as he moved, his own unseen stare locking with Elen's, making her freeze, her heart thudding strangely in her chest. She saw he was of the race of Men, not a Nazgûl after all, the comparision striking her as ridiculous now, and despite the distance, she saw he was tall and leanly built, holding himself as though he were a king, inclining his head to her as though she were a queen, and then he was gone, fading into the shadows.

 _I've been watching_  
 _I've been waiting_  
 _In the shadows for my time_  
 _I've been searching_  
 _I've been living_  
 _For tomorrows all my life..._


	4. Hopeless Wanderer

**Hopeless** **Wanderer**

 _Three months later_

Aragorn made his way through the trees, his worn hand unconsciously resting on his sword hilt, his grey gaze restlessly scanning his surroundings, almost waiting for war. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across Aragorn, his other hand pushing aside an intruding branch now and again. Everything was silent, the air almost still, like it was holding its breath. No bird dared to sing, no wind wove its way, the only sound the heavy tread of Aragorn's boots over the ground.

He slowed to a sudden stop, his head snapping up, every instinct warning him he wasn't alone after all. Crouching down, he concealed himself behind a thick trunked tree, ready to raise his sword in a heartbeat. There was a flash of ebony, a swirl of crimson, a figure moving between the trees up ahead, Aragorn straightening up, relaxing his stance, seeing it was only a wench. She stopped, before bending over and picking up a branch, adding it to the small bundle she already carried, and Aragon turned away, losing interest, ready to slip into the shadows once more -

 _Tinúviel elvanui_

 _Elleth alfirin edhelhael_

 _O hon ring finnil fuinui_

 _A renc gelebrin thiliol..._

 _('Tinúviel the elven-fair,_

 _Immortal maiden elven-wise,_

 _About him cast her shadowy hair,_

 _And arms like silver glimmering...)_

Aragorn just stood there, like a man in a trance, the girl's voice shattering the silence. He listened as she sang on, her words weaving around him like a spell, remembering when he'd last heard them, making the years melt away. She could not sing, but not even that could ruin the rough beauty of the melody. Before he realised what he was doing, he followed the sound of the voice, his feet carrying him to where the discordant music rose and fell like an empire.

As he emerged from the undergrowth, the girl whirled around, dropping her bundle of branches in surprise. The sight of her startled face made Aragorn recall himself, and he backed away, holding his hands up as he moved. "My apologies," he said quietly, inclining his head, "I did not mean to alarm you."

The girl's grey eyes narrowed, her small hand moving to her waist, Aragorn instantly noting the gesture, making his spine stiffen. "You mean to catch a maiden unawares, sir?" she said lightly, her tone not deceiving Aragon one whit. The words on any other woman's lips would sound like a provocative promise, but not here, not her.

"I did not mean anything," Aragorn said carefully, "only to listen to a song once lost so long ago."

"The song is finished, _sir_."

Aragorn just stood there, studying the girl's face, curiosity caught despite himself. There were echoes of what he held dear in her irregular features; the sweeping curve of her ebony eyebrows; the dent in her lower lip; the wideness of her stormy eyes. She was not fair, but she held herself as if she was a queen, her fall of black hair tumbling to her crimson clad waist, a wreath of white flowers crowning her brow.

"What do you see, stranger?" the girl asked abruptly, her jaw tightening.

Before she could react, Aragorn suddenly crossed the distance between them, his hand brushing back her black hair, revealing the tip of a pointed ear. The next thing Aragorn knew was a dagger at his throat, the girl's face suddenly feral with fury, throwing into existence her unearthly origins, making Aragorn freeze, caught uncharacteristically offguard.

"Forgive my forwardness, my lady," Aragorn apologized, swiftly recovering himself, "but I could not contain my curiosity" - He suddenly disarmed the girl, the dagger now held at her own throat, Aragorn raising his eyebrows in almost challenge.

"You don't prefer your women willing, then?" the girl sneered.

"I prefer not to have a blade at my jugular," Aragorn said dryly, hesitating before handing the dagger back to the girl, who snatched it from him, eying him with great suspicion. "Peredhil?" he then said suddenly, making a shadow fall across the girl's face.

"What of it?" she said, almost spitting the words.

"Again, merely curiosity," Aragorn said lightly, "the same curiosity that caused a stranger to stray into your path." He then said a simple farewell in Sindarin, before turning to leave, his hand resting on his sword hilt again. It was rare he sought the company of strangers, preferring to walk his own path, but the song had drawn him out of the darkness he desired to draw around him like a cloak.

The girl studied him for a long moment, her brow furrowing. "How does one of the _Edain_ speak the language of the _Eldar?_ " she asked, making Aragorn turn around, his eyes suddenly alight with amusement.

"You sing like a dwarf being forced to take a bath, my lady," he said with a small smile, and then he was gone, leaving only silence where he'd been standing.

 _You heard my voice I came out of the woods by choice_  
 _Shelter also gave their shade_  
 _But in the dark I have no name…_


End file.
